


How to Wreck your Temerian Commander

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Vernon Roche is known for three things: His temper, his results, and his unwavering loyalty. What isn't known is how far his loyalty can be tested. Just how easy is it to break a Temerian Commander?
Relationships: Foltest/Vernon Roche
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	How to Wreck your Temerian Commander

**Author's Note:**

> Reupload for a very special rabbit.

He was bordering on drunk again. Not a state fit for a King in the least, especially not the King of Temeria. Aedirn, maybe, but in that moment, he didn’t care. The letter that lay beside him had said enough and it had been years since he let himself go. For one night, he was allowed to do as he pleased, and with that, he snapped up his second bottle of rye, turning it to the firelight.

The green glass danced under its reflection. Cold, yet dazzling. Just like his country.

With an expert hand on his knife, he popped out the cork and dipped the bottle toward his solid oak mug, the dark amber liquid spilling out in a steady, calm stream. The scent of charred oak and sweetened liquor tickled at his senses for a second before it dulled, leaving him with only the smell of his fire burning to fill the void. A bough of juniper was tucked under the fiery logs - more now out of habit than warding away spirits - and it left the air around him stale and sharp, further sinking him into his bothersome thoughts.

It left him sighing as he set the bottle down and plucked his mug from the table, the liquid coating his tongue with a spicy, dry taste, numbing his cheeks and warming his throat.

Maria; His once-sweet Maria. How could she be so damned idiotic? Why were women so easily manipulated by the wrong type of men? He cast a glance at the letter by his side once more before he nearly slammed the rye back. Why were the women he always chose to mix with so easily persuaded into thinking he was a monster? That was the real question.

He didn’t care for the insults she had thrown at him, both in person and written. Those were things that could easily be forgiven. However, the manipulation of his children were something else. Borderline treason, if he had to put a word to it. Gods, he should raze the La Valette castle to the ground, slaughter every damn man that put the stupid ideas into Maria’s head, but he knew it wouldn’t change much. It wouldn’t prompt her to change in the least. She was always so headstrong and passionate.

What was truly holding him back was the thought of his children if he chose that route. His _bastards_ as everyone liked to tout them. Ha! As if marriage truly made them legitimate. They sprouted from the seeds of his loins, that was proof enough. Just because Maria wasn’t a constant in his bed didn’t make them any less his. Only weak men saw them as such and were content to draw them away. To make him the tyrant. The bloodthirsty monster. _The enemy_.

Yet, he couldn’t deny it didn’t have an effect. When Anais had given him that look after Maria dragged them away from him - like he was truly someone to be feared and not her father - and Boussy had been near tears. Unfit for a proper future king to display, but he no longer was in the position to teach him such. They were being schooled now by whoresons and traitors, filling their heads with ideas like he was nothing more than a warmonger. That he had raped their mother, that the old Baron was their true father, and he was just a desperate oppressor who saw them as the perfect victims.

Gods, it made him sick. No, it pissed him off.

He should be at their sides, teaching them both the roles they were to take. Boussy to become his successor, to cast off his meek attitude and rise to become a leader for Temeria. To oppose Nilfgaard and keep the other Northern Realms at bay. He knew his son was capable of it, he saw how he watched people. He wasn’t stupid, just quiet. While Anais was to be taught in the ways of politics and the court. He knew his daughter was clever, if not almost mischievous, like her mother. Her wit needed to be honed so she could survive whichever court she would end up serving. He needed to be there for them.

To teach them like he had failed to instruct his dear elder daughter.

Silently, he took another drink, the liquid burning his throat. No, he would not make the same mistake again. He would not have them be cursed, like Adda, or fall into ruins like the kingdoms wanted. They were his children - his heirs, his blood. Only the process in fixing everything was more complicated now that Maria had been turned against him.

He’d make the whoresons who did so pay, mark his words, but in that moment, as his head began to swim with liquor and annoyance, he was left with a dry mouth and no plan. Just his evening robes loosely gathered around him as he stared at the fire, his body feeling all too hot and cold at the same time.

He should write to Adda. He wondered if she could even read at that point.

It was as he was tipping the bottle into his mug for another round that he heard the steps from outside. Short, forceful, and clearly on a warpath. Without a warning, his door was flung open, a dark figure stepping inside, and he only cast a glance behind him to the window. It was dark - past midnight? Just before? - and he found himself sighing, not bothering to get up for his guest. Not that it mattered anyway, as the figure moved swiftly to him, immediately bowing low, taking a knee.

It made him swirl the rye in his mug for a second, letting it slosh around the sides before he even acknowledged the presence. He caught a slight scent of spruce mixed with something else - Iron? Or blood? - and he couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. 

“Vernon,” he said quietly, watching as the figure remained as still as a statue; Unwavering, even in the dead of night. “I thought you were in Gors Velen.”

“Your Majesty,” the reply came, and he could tell his dear Commander was clearly parched. It wouldn’t surprise him if he found out he had run straight from Gors Velen to Vizima. “Forgive me. I was in upper Temeria when I came across some information I needed to report. The barons - the La Valette’s - they are seeking-”

He cut him off, the words turning bitter in his mouth. “To withhold my children from me? I know, Vernon. I know.”

He watched as his Commander raised his head, almost in shock. It was endearing, to say the least. Like a dog who had been just been scolded for bringing in a pheasant. He had done right, but was taken off guard by the reaction. Honestly, he would have maybe laughed or teased him if he wasn’t getting close to being drunk at that moment.

Really though, Vernon Roche did remind him of a dog. Not a mutt off the street, no, even though that would probably be the best description for him. No, Roche was like a hunting hound. One that took its job more seriously than the rest, almost to the point of obsession. If there was anyone he could rely on, for discretion or more sinister matters, it was his trained Blue Stripes Commander. The one man who actually listened when he was told and didn’t question the little things.

A real patriot of Temeria. Unlike the whoresons who owned titles and land.

And poisoned his children.

Without hesitation, he reached beside him, tugging the letter Maria had sent him from underneath the bottles of rye. There were never any major secrets between him and his intelligence commander. What he knew, Vernon would eventually find out. Usually through bloodshed. So, what harm was giving him the letter Maria had sent? At any rate, it would at least give Vernon some context when he would eventually start complaining about it. Which he planned to. Because it was still pissing him off.

His Commander took the letter with a steady hand, slowly moving to stand and push his hood back, and he watched as his face was finally revealed. How dark Vernon’s eyes were and how weary he appeared, along with a fresh cut near his jaw. Foltest said nothing at the sight, though he did wonder how he acquired it. Then again, Vernon was always sporting new scars, either from fighting when he shouldn’t be or not blocking when he should.

He drank from his mug, hissing at the sharp, spicy aftertaste. It warmed him, though not in the way he wanted, as he felt his cheeks grow hot while his throat remained dry. Plough it, he poured himself another, waiting as Roche took his damn sweet time reading the letter.

Finally, he made a noise. One that he always made when he was clearly dissatisfied. “Sire… This…”

“I know,” he said. Gods, he knew.

“I don’t understand. Why would she-?”

“Neither do I, Vernon,” he sighed. “And I doubt I ever will.”

A tense silence fell between them, one where his brooding feelings were coming up and Roche’s anger that someone _dare_ insult his King were palatable. Again, it was endearing, but not what he wanted in that moment. Vernon could go off some other time - possibly within the next week, if the matter didn’t get resolved sooner than that. However, in that moment, he just wanted to sit and stare at the fire. To forget about barons and betrayal and how bloody insane the world had turned.

To forget that look Anais had given him. How it was always his daughters that wounded him in the worst ways.

He dropped his mug on the table beside him and moved to rubbing his face. Gods, he felt old.

“Vernon,” he muttered.

“Yes, your Majesty?” his Commander said, attentive and ready to strike, always ready to execute his command. Gods, no wonder he heard the court whisper Roche was a nothing more than a bitch in human form. His loyalty was unwavering, even when his King was getting drunk like a lush.

“Sit a while with me,” he asked, nodding to the empty space beside his chair. “Have a drink.”

“…As you wish.”

Of course. As he wished. At least someone in his damn country got that.

Without a further word, he pushed himself out of his chair, intending to help his Commander until he realized he had consumed more alcohol than he thought. The liquor that was swimming in his stomach felt like it drained down his legs and straight to his feet, nearly making him sway like a bloody child having their first nip of stout. Gods, was he really that much of a lightweight now? He forced himself to move, to walk like the damned King he was, and Vernon merely stalked about his quarters as if he was in his own home, his cloak being thrown by the door to reveal his medallion over thick blue armor.

For a second it caught the firelight, the silver sending fractures across his room, gleaming like the stars in the sky, and he found himself watching it. How long ago was it that he gave him that medal? Did he evevn take it off? That was the better question.

Did it matter? Probably not.

He threw another log on the fire, grabbing the poker to stab it into position as his Commander grabbed another chair, plucking a mug off the nearby dresser, the letter discarded in its place. He only ever kept two mugs in his room - he used to have more until they mysteriously disappeared - yet the other one always seemed to end up in his Commander’s hand. Not that he wouldn’t have a drink with others. Natalis, for example, was a fine man to throw back a beer with. The ballista crew he had been training were also a riot and could out drink a legion of horses. But the only one who ever frequented his bed chambers as of late was his elite soldier. The man he had found bloodied on the streets of Vizima as a young lad, ready to die for a measly handful of crowns.

The memory made him look back at his Commander, how he poured himself a drink with a steady hand and cold eyes. He had been so damn thin when they first met, with old and new bruises on his face, his knuckles scarred, his lip bleeding. He had defiantly spat at his feet, not even caring when his soldiers had slammed him into the wall, adding to his injuries. Everything about him had been a mess.

Now here he was, one of his best men.

Vernon caught his eye, the poor boy frowning before he took a seat, swirling the mug around for a second. “Your Majesty?”

He couldn’t help but smile to himself. From calling him a whoreson to only referring to him as his title. How men could change.

Good men could change.

“Foltest, Vernon. You can call me my name when we’re not in court,” he said, placing the poker back on its hook before he moved to take up his chair again, ignoring the annoyed face Roche made at his request.

Of course he wouldn’t; It was always going to be ‘Your Majesty’ or nothing at all. Vernon was too stubborn to break protocol at this point - headstrong brat. Still, it made him pause when he came to his side, his hand moving to ruffle his Commander’s chaperon causing him to stiffen, though he didn’t complain. Just like a loyal dog.

Only the way he had pushed his damn mop to be a lopsided mess now annoyed him. There was no point in him keeping it on, it wasn’t like it was needed for a reason other than vanity. “Take this off, Roche.”

He saw him begrudgingly obey, his fingers moving to yank the cloth off and he exposed his short brown hair, parts of it turning a soft silver, though it mostly was concentrated near his temples. It ironically made him look younger, though that could be attributed to the fact that he constantly looked like a feral, starving wolf ready to tear into any loose flesh that flashed at him. His eyes were always dark with bags underneath, his mouth in a permanent scowl, and the show of his hair to remind people he was human and not as old as one damn well thought was always a welcome change.

Without warning, he messed up his hair, ignoring the grunt that escaped from his throat.

“You’re getting old, Vernon.”

His Commander sighed. “Don’t remind me.”

He had to admit, that made him smile. It didn’t take him long to pull out of his previous mood, and he poured Vernon a nearly overflowing mug, watching his Commander flush slightly at the amount of liquor he had been silently instructed to consume.

“Tell me about what you found in Gors Velen,” he smirked at him, watching his poor Commander struggling to take a drink, his teeth baring for a moment. “The atmosphere must have been nice at this time of year. How were the peasants? The weather? The women?”

Vernon snorted. “Awful.”

“Awful? Which one?”

“All of them.”

He smirked at that. “Come now, Vernon. You have nothing nice to say?” He shot him a look, one that was clear he wasn’t amused. It made him chuckle, his hand moving to grab his own drink. “This is why people call you a bastard, you know. You never have anything nice to say.”

“If people gave me a reason to have a better attitude of Gors Velen, I’d have one,” he muttered. “Instead it’s the same old mess as it always is. Whiny peasants, watered down drinks, crying dogs, and a baron who can’t find his ass with both fucking hands.” He took another attempt at his drink, hissing after. “It’s nothing but swamps, sewage, and shitty people.”

“That’s not very patriotic of you,” he had to tease. It only made his Commander scoff, his eyes locked on the fire. “Here I thought you loved every part of Temeria.”

“I do,” he said, clearly growing defensive. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t criticize the parts of it that deserve it.”

“Gors Velen isn’t that bad.” Vernon shot him a look. He tried hard not to crack a smile at his sour expression and he took a moment to down his drink. “The women are nice.”

“If you’re blind,” he said without a hint of irony. How he nearly forgot how much of a pain in the ass Roche could be.

“Come now, Vernon,” he said, pouring himself another drink, his mood improving. “Is there no woman you wish to be with?”

Again, he heard him sigh. “No.”

“There must be one,” he pried. “Some Temerian lass that’s caught your eye. A northern milkmaid near White Orchard or Flotsam? Or perhaps a shy lady-in-waiting from the south? Or even an immigrant from Toussaint or Skellige. There’s lots to choose from. A lot of young women coming of age these days, ripe for bearing the child of an Elite Commander.”

“Mmhmm.”

This wasn’t the reactions he was expecting. His Commander was always rather quiet about certain topics, but if he got him going, sometimes he never shut up. Clearly, this wasn’t those moments. “Really, Vernon? You sound as enthused at the prospect as a drunk is when told the tavern is closing.”

Again, his Commander’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t elaborate. He merely swirled his drink, his eyes staring into the fire before he took a swift shot. Only after he licked his lips did he speak, his tone even and quiet. “I’m not interested in having offspring.”

Interesting. Not that it was a scandalous statement or anything. Lots of his men tended to choose the life of serving Temeria over bearing children. He just didn’t suspect his Commander was one. “Afraid you’ll die before they’re of a proper age?”

His cheek twitched again. “No, your Majesty,” he admitted. “I just have never liked children.”

That made him chuckle. He certainly wouldn’t be the first to openly admit such a thing. “They’re not all bad, Vernon. In fact, they can be quite fun.”

He tossed him a glance, one that clearly showed he didn’t agree. “Children ask far too many questions and see too many things.”

Ah, so he was speaking from a special operations viewpoint.

“Here I would think you’d value that in a person.”

“I do,” he admitted. “But not when it comes from one that also like to tell me I’m a whoreson, then screams bloody murder at the consequence.”

“Consequence?”

He said nothing.

He didn’t have to read his mind to figure out what that meant.

“Vernon, you shouldn’t hit children.”

He glared at him. Well, maybe it was best his Commander wasn’t keen on reproducing. It made him sigh, his own mug tipping back and forth for a moment, mixing the dark amber liquid within.

“Always so hot-tempered. Here I thought you’d grow out of it.”

He didn’t reply.

“Oh, Vernon…”

“Your Majesty, can we talk about something else?” he asked, his own mug lifting to his thin-pressed lips. “Forgive me for my lack of propriety, but I just raced across Temeria to bring you news it seems you already know. So I’m a little-”

“Out of sorts?”

He sighed. “In a sense.”

Fair enough.

He looked back at his drink, swirling it around his mug for a second, the amber liquid appearing almost black in his cup. “Then enlighten me on something else, Vernon.”

His Commander remained silent. It was disturbing, to say the least.

“Vernon,” he said, snapping his Commander out of his haze, forcing him to turn and meet his eyes, a slight glaze set in them. He only cocked his head, studying the man. “What’s the matter? You’re unusually quiet right now.”

His mouth twitched for a moment before he sighed, straightening in his seat, his shoulder rolling. “Sorry, Sire. I’m just going over the letter in my head. I’m a little disturbed by what is happening. This… move against you.”

His jovial mood dampened a bit. Leave it to Roche to focus on what actually mattered in the moment rather than take a half hour off to talk about nonsense. Then again, that was why he appointed him in such a position. His Commander was supposed to entrench himself with such state of affairs. Though, at the end of the day, he did have a moment where he wished he could let it go. Where Vernon Roche wasn’t so damn serious and would actually indulge his penchant for being teased.

Instead, his mind was forced to go back to the matter of hand. At the fact that he could have a civil war brewing on his lands, one that put his blood in danger.

“Vernon,” he sighed. “What do you know of the La Valette Castle?”

He saw him tap a finger against his mug, clearly mulling the layout in his mind. “It’s fortified, but not heavily enough that our machines can’t penetrate the walls. The town is a bit of a mess, but what’s to be expected of hovels build of mud and brick. The place itself, the castle, always was an interesting structure for Northern Temeria, considering some of its spires have been designated as intellectual spaces. But that just means there’s more places to hide and possibly ambush. From either side.”

He watched him for a moment, admiring how he had remembered such things. In truth, he’d only taken Vernon to the castle once with him. Mostly it was to get the old bastard out of the woods since he had taken a bolt to the arm fighting his favourite little elves, but he also was hoping his Commander would have retained information about the place, in case he wished to move there to be with Maria. Now, however, his intelligence was proving useful in another way, and he quietly sipped from his mug in response.

“Where do you think Anais and Boussy would go if there was an attack? One of the spires?”

Roche tapped his mug again, thinking. “I’m not sure. Either the top of the castle, or elsewhere.” He paused. “Why, your Majesty? Are we to plan an assault?”

“Not yet. Don’t get into that sort of thinking until I’m sure there’s no other option.”

Vernon only nodded. “You know, sire, you could just have my unit kidnap-”

“No,” he immediately cut him off. “I’ll not have you traumatize my children and further instigate to those whoresons that I am a tyrant and delusional. If my children are to be at my side, I want them there willingly and without turning half of Temeria against me.”

He saw his Commander sigh, but he eventually nodded. Of course in his hot-headed mind, kidnapping them would be easiest, but things were never cut and dry. Too many problems would arise from such a scenario, and he was left swallowing down his rye in a single movement, the taste not quenching his thirst. Once more, he grabbed the bottle, filling his cup up, and he dropped it onto the table unceremoniously, sighing as he did.

Why did Maria have to believe those men? Why were the bastards so eager to turn her against him, anyway?

“Whoresons,” he growled, staring into the fire. He felt Roche glance to him, his dark eyes waiting for an explanation, and he only waved him off. “Those men, Roche. Those whoresons who dared filling Maria’s head with stupidity.” He took another harsh drink from his mug. “She wasn’t perfect, but I thought she was better than trusting idiots like that.”

Vernon only sighed. “Vermin and filth always will find a way to corrupt the innocent, your Majesty. Noble or not.”

Sadly, it was well said. “True, Vernon, but sometimes I have hope that humanity would be better than that.”

He scoffed. “Given the chance, sire, humans will gladly wallow in the mud with like-minded individuals than face the truth.”

“I assume you know this from your little jaunts around the North?” he cocked a brow. His Commander was always a cynical bastard, but it seemed to be very blatant that night. Or perhaps the alcohol was affecting him more than he liked. The fire was starting to dance in ways that made his cheeks flush. “Or would this be something you find out when you spend hours in dungeon cells with hot pokers?”

He didn’t see him smirk. “Hot pokers? Your Majesty, that would be too easy.”

Of course. “You’re a sick bastard sometimes, Vernon.”

“I’ve never denied that,” he muttered. Cheeky brat.

They fell into a silence, one filled with wooden mugs being lifted too many times and the sound of the fire crackling louder than logic. It was lulling him into a strange sense of melancholy mixed with longing. Of the woman he was losing above all else. His children? He could get them back. But Maria? No. She wouldn’t return to him.

Those days were over. Because of a few whoresons.

“You know what I’ll miss about Maria the most?” he asked his Commander, the fire before him blurring in his eyes, turning into streaks of orange. He didn’t hear Vernon reply, but it didn’t matter. “The sex, Vernon. Gods, will I miss that.”

He heard him shift in discomfort. As if the mere prospect of him, at his age, still engaged in such acts. Fuck it, he didn’t care. He was a man, even if he was getting on in years. Just because his hair was now as white as the snow on the Blue Mountains, didn’t mean he lost all urges. He could still _function_ , clearly. Otherwise Boussy and Anais wouldn’t have his blood in their veins. Have his thick, blonde hair adorn their royal heads.

He sighed, slumping back, thinking of Maria and her fiery demeanor. How she used to bat her eyes at him - and that shapely rear. It always fit perfectly in his hands.

“She was so willing, you know. The way she’d hop on me in the mornings. You ever have that, Vernon? A woman so willing in the morning?” He glanced at him, but Vernon remained quiet; Tense.

“…No, your Majesty.”

He shook his head, feeling sorry for the boy. “It’s lovely, waking up to a sight like that. And to smell something other than blade oil and bloody juniper branches on your pillow.” He closed his eyes, just for a moment, to recall her face. How her black hair had cascaded down her shoulders and the way her bottom lip would be bitten in such a coy yet innocent way.

Twelve years of courting one another. Of her sneaking behind the old baron’s back, of them trying not to look as as guilty as they were when she pulled him away for short romps between his scheduled meetings and court duties. When, during the rare occasions they could share the night, he woke up to her perfect, sleeping form. That moment when he learned of Anais - his daughter. Uncursed. Born healthy, breathing, and Maria not suffering from any signs of distress.

He let his head fall back, a deep sigh escaping his lips. Twelve years, and now it meant nothing. “Vernon,” he said. His Commander cast him a glance once again, waiting for him to finish his sentence. “Do you think I should have married her?”

“No.”

That wasn’t the answer he had been looking for and he had to turn to stare at him, frowning as he did. “No?”

“No,” he reaffirmed. 

“Why not?”

There was a clear sign of hesitation on his face before he faced the fire once again, his hands solid on the wooden mug between them.

“May I speak openly, Your Majesty?”

“…I suppose.”

He licked his lips, as if getting ready to verbally tear him apart. “I don’t think she was good enough for you.”

What?

He leaned up, gawking at him. “Good enough for me?” he repeated. Vernon’s cheeks seemed to glow a certain shade of rouge. He’d be embarrassed to if he had just claimed such nonsense. “She was a Baroness, Roche.”

“I know,” he said, his tone defensive. “I just don’t think she was a good match. For you.”

“Is that so?” he said. In hindsight, he should have figured his dear Commander never quite liked Maria. After all, he never actually mentioned her by name, just by title, and always in a tense and strained voice. It actually irritated him, and he found himself glaring at his Commander, the liquor in his system fueling his annoyance. “Are you mad I had children with her?”

“No,” he said. “Temeria needs heirs.”

“You just don’t think she’s good enough for me.”

He flushed, moving to run his hand between his shoulder and neck, rubbing. “I’m just stating my opinion, sire.”

“A rather bold opinion, if I say so,” he said, moving to take another drink, the alcohol strengthening his tongue. “And who, Roche, would you approve of me being with?”

“Your Majesty-”

“Please. Enlighten me,” he demanded. “Surely you have someone in mind.”

It didn’t take a genius to feel the tension rise in the room, for him to watch his Commander - his loyal soldier - shrink in his seat for a moment. He was hiding something, he just couldn’t figure out what.

“Vernon?”

There was a small sigh, a definite shift, before he shook his head. “I don’t have anyone in mind, your Majesty. I just… am not that fond of the Baroness.”

“And why is that?” he asked, not out of curiosity, but more as punishment. Of course his Commander could dislike whoever he wanted, but for some reason it rubbed him the wrong way with why he had chosen Maria. How he disapproved of them. Granted, she wasn’t his perfect match, but she was close enough to a companion as he had ever had.

Roche only sighed, giving a small shrug, choosing to answer once he had taken a drink. Probably not wise, but he was teetering on the edge himself. Too much rye and not enough self control left in either of them. “I don’t think she’d properly care for you.”

“Care for me?” he said. That was his reasoning? “I want a woman by my side, Roche. Not a mother.”

He let out a breath from between clenched teeth. “I know, your Majesty. I’m aware of why people pick partners. I’m just thinking to the future. When one of the bastards are on the throne-”

“Children, Vernon. They’re my damn children.”

He flushed a deeper red. “-Someone will need to care for you. Watch your back. I don’t think the Baroness would be inclined to do so. Women get increasingly fickle as they age.”

Now that was an interesting tone to take. “What do you mean by that?”

“Do you really think she’ll want to bathe and clothe you when you’re older?”

“That’s why I have chambermaids, Roche.”

He struggled to maintain a steady tone, he bloody well heard it. “I mean, do you think she’ll still mount you in the mornings? Want to take a tumble under the sheets in the night? Women get tired of it. They lose that urge the older they get, and what you’ll be left with is a stale relationship that both of you will complain about until you find someone younger to test your desires.”

He honestly had to stare at him for that. Gods, he sounded so cynical, yet it was surprising to hear him say such things. Especially when he made it clear he had no desire to engage in marriage himself. Where he picked up such ‘wisdom’ he almost didn’t want to know, but it prompted him to press his dear Commander, digging into the secret of his negativity.

“Were you ever married, Vernon?”

“No,” he flushed.

“Then pray tell me how you gained this insight.”

He furrowed his brows, giving him a brief glance - honest, yet pained - before he was back to glaring at the fire.

“You just need to talk to people, your Majesty,” he muttered. “They usually tell you all you need to know with a few words.”

That made him sigh. Vague, yet it was enough that it had to satisfy him for an answer. Clever whoreson. Still, he didn’t like the implication, and he found himself swirling his drink again, watching the rye lap at the drying walls of his mug.

“As nice as your concern is, Vernon, I’m going to have to say that Maria would have done fine caring for me. Maybe she still will, if this whole mess blows over. And if she doesn’t, well. I suppose I’ll have to care for myself, won’t I?” He sniffed slightly at the thought. “Not like I haven’t bloody well done that for years.”

“I could care for you, if you want.”

“You already do, Vernon,” he sighed, brushing him off.

He almost didn’t hear the tense breath that came from him. “No, your Majesty. I can take care of you, if you want.” He paused. “I can… help you.”

Again, he frowned at him. “I know, Vernon. You care for me enough.”

“Not… In the way I want.”

His brow raised. “And what way is that?”

He remained silent, on purpose. Even when he cast glances at him, waiting, expecting a response.

“Roche?”

That’s when it hit him, and he found himself staring down at his Commander - at Vernon Roche, the boy he pulled off the street. His thoughts sobered, his body pushed up, and his heart began to race for some reason. Fear? Disgust? Shock? He couldn’t tell.

“Vernon,” he said, the name thick in his mouth. He only stared at the fire, the flush on his face not fading, his knuckles white on his mug. “That’s not funny.”

“I mean it,” he said in a voice he never heard before. It was thick with something.

_Something absolutely forbidden._

He sat upright, his mind struggling to keep clear as the situation began creeping into him. This was his damn Commander. One of his soldiers, someone he trusted. Yet here he was, willing to do something mad - completely out of the question. All because he was complaining. No, because he demanded he let him know his feelings about Maria.

But, gods, why didn’t he see it before? No man was ever loyal without a reason, were they? Was that why Vernon was always at his side? Willingly to do as he asked?

He struggled to find saliva in his mouth. To make sure he could talk in a proper tone. “Vernon… you’re my soldier.”

He bowed his head, almost in shame. “I know. I-I know. But I took a vow, your Majesty-”

“I know your vows.”

“-A vow to serve you. In any way.” His head turned slightly, just so their eyes could meet and he could see the light flickering in them from the fire, his jaw tight for a second before he exhaled again, this time with a shaky breath. It made him stiffen in his seat. He wasn’t used to this type of atmosphere or position. One where he could truly see how vulnerable his Commander was.

He lusted after him. The prospect alone made his gut churn.

“Vernon,” he warned, yet he struggled with how to complete his sentence. What was he supposed to say? “I think… we should call it a night.”

Yes, that was the proper answer. To end it, before it got out of hand. He refused to look at him, even though he could feel his dark eyes burning holes into his head, and instead moved to drink from his mug. His last drink before he retired for the night.

Roche let out a sigh - deep; meaningful - before he nodded, moving to down his own, not leaving a single drop behind. That was that, right? He gave him a suggestion - almost a command. They needed to part ways for the night, start fresh in morning. What was said would be done. And soon he’d be alone, contemplating their words and just where it went wrong.

Except he hated the dejected look that was clear on his Commander’s face, how he got up to replace his chair and the mug, plucking the letter up once again to return it to his side.

The letter from Maria condemning him, telling him how he’d never see his children again and her demands that he disown them.

The threat to pretend like it never happened.

Vernon merely placed it underneath his nearly empty bottle of Temerian rye - right where it belonged - before he moved to stand in front of him and take a bow. Just as he always did.

Just as he always _should_.

Only now, it was him with the flushing face, him staring at his lean body, at the crest of the lilies on his chest, to the belt that tied his armor to his damn frame.

“Good night, your Majesty,” he said, courteous, without a hint of his actual disappointment, and he clenched his jaw at the statement.

Gods damn him. Gods damn Maria for rejecting him, for the damn traitorous barons for manipulating her, and for the bottle and a half of Temerian rye swimming in his bloodstream.

“Vernon,” he said, forcing him to look up and wait, his eyes too painfully honest for his liking. It was too damn apparent to him now how much control he had over the man. How obvious it was that his Commander lived for his every word. He was worse than a hound dog - No, he was a dog, but a bitch more than a bull. One that was clearly in a heat that he failed to pick up on, and it left him moving to rub at his eyes. “Vernon, tell me how you would care for me.”

He slowly blinked.

“Now, Vernon! Spit it out!”

He hesitated, clearly uneasy at his tone. “Whatever you want, your Majesty. I swore to serve you.”

He knew he was going to regret this, yet it slipped from his mouth without warning. “Show me.” 

It didn’t surprise him when his Commander snapped his head up, eyes growing wide. “Show me, Vernon,” he said, his voice almost in the tone he used when he ordered him around, but not quite. This was different. It edged on something he didn’t want to think about.

_Because it was completely ploughing mental._

“Well?” he said, watching as his Commander’s flush remained permanent across his face, his lips pressing thin. “If not, then I’m retiring for the night. And I would advise you to-”

Vernon dropped to his knees before him, moving to occupy the space between his legs and he found his words dying off, his body stiffening at the sudden closeness. His Commander didn’t dare look up - or maybe he had no intention to - and instead carefully set his hands on his thighs, his breathing short for a moment, as if he was trying to steel himself.

He swallowed without thinking, his mouth growing parched despite how much alcohol he had consumed. Yet the sight of Vernon between his legs, flushing, waiting for a command. It made something in him tighten. Roche had meant what he said.

The air between them grew thick - almost palatable - with a tension he could only describe as dark. It wasn’t like when he fought with the court, nor was it the type that hung in the air before wars. No, this was one that lingered in shaded rooms. That stayed in the doorways where unspeakable things happened. When Kings took on mistresses, or chambermaids were called to satisfy a curious duchess’ taste. A haunting, sexually charged pressure that warped the minds of men and women alike.

It was damn well affecting him, and without thinking, he reached pull at the string that held his robe to his waist. The one that, once loosened, would allow certain parts of him to be exposed.

He tried not to watch his Commander as he did it. Only because he was looking like a fox that had found the gate to a chicken coop wide open. He was clearly hungering for him - Gods, what was he saying - and when he finished with the strings, moving to settle his hands on the arms of his chair, he could see the anticipation utterly building in the man. How his dark-eyed, bloody mess of a soldier was struggling to remain still.

He was too drunk for this, and Vernon was too sober for his liking. One of them was going to break, and he honestly wasn’t sure that it wouldn’t be him. Just staring down at him, at the man who had vowed to serve him until death, how damned patriotic and bloody enthusiastic he had been at his coronation. Now here he was, between his legs, waiting to show him just how far he would go on his orders.

He had to have one last drink. Just to take off the edge.

Vernon watched him, silent, his lips pressing thin as he poured himself the last of the rye from the bottle. The alcohol was spicier than he remembered, yet it went down his throat cold, and he found himself hissing at the taste, subconsciously licking his drying lips.

Vernon waited, completely still, and he found himself scowling at him. “Well?” he said, his voice a bit harsher than he wanted. “Are you going to start or not?”

His breath escaped through slightly clenched teeth. “Are you giving me permission, your Majesty?”

He frowned. “Just start, Vernon. Before I come to my senses.”

“As you command,” he said quietly, the words taking on a meaning he never wanted them to have - utter submission - and he nearly dropped his drink as his Commander shoved his robes up, bunching the fabric around his waist to expose his undergarments. It wasn’t a swift motion; It was more aggressive than anything else, but the cool air hitting his legs made him stiffen, his body not used to the exposure unless he was already lying in a bed.

He wasn’t given much time to dwell on that either, as Vernon gripped the top of his white shorts, not even bothering with proper manners or subtly, and he forced them down, exposing his cock to the whoreson. He had to admit he gripped his mug fiercely at the motion and his mind stuck on edge, alarming him that he had plunged in too deep with something he didn’t understand.

Vernon only stared at him, his lips pressing into a paper-thin line, his eyes widening for a moment before he lowered them. A single breath escaped his lips - laboured; guilty - and he gave him one last glance. One last moment to save face. His mouth went completely dry.

He said _nothing_.

“Forgive me, your Majesty,” he heard him whisper. Then he gripped his thighs, his fingers harsh and sturdy, and his head went down.

The first thing he registered was his breath. It swept over his cock, warming it, before it disappeared, morphing instead into a wet sensation that forced a shiver down his spine. Roche had licked him in one harsh movement, his tongue horribly soft and his saliva thick, sticking to his shaft in a way he hadn’t felt in years. There was a pause - he heard Roche lick his lips, as if savouring the taste - and he repeated his action, only this time on the side, his tongue coating what skin it could find.

It sounded sloppy. It looked indecent. Yet his eyes were glued to what was happening to himself, to how his constantly frustrated, hot-tempered Commander was lovingly licking his genitals like a common whore in a high-class brothel. He wasn’t doing it without a pattern either - this was learned. He knew how to angle himself, how to coax his cock to a thicker length, where his lips needed to be as it rose. For a second, he nipped at the head and he almost lost it right there. His damn expert lips, his bloody teeth, and he pulled back, recognizing immediately that doing so would end his fun.

He caught his eye and he couldn’t help but let out a harsh breath, staring at him in disbelief. _Where_ did he learn this? Why the fuck was he so good at it?

He paused, once again running his tongue over his lips, his dark eyes filled with a dark lust he couldn’t quite place. “Are you alright, your Majesty?”

Was he alright? He was damn well losing his mind. Of course he wasn’t alright. “M’ fine.”

Damn whoreson didn’t seem convinced. “If it’-”

“Vernon, shut up and suck. That’s an order,” he spat. It shut him right up. Though he had to admit, he hated when he saw how bloody pleased he appeared to be at his tone.

His right hand left his thigh, moving to grab his cock to hold it upright, and the bastard began licking him again, not as sloppily as before, but enough that he had to make a fist on the arm of his chair. Slowly, his hand started to move, drawing up and down his shaft, and he grunted at the rhythm. It was purposely slow, meaning to draw this out when that was the last thing he wanted. Yet he wasn’t in control of what his Commander did. All he could do was instruct, and his throat was too tight to begin delivering orders. He was at his mercy and his back settled against his chair, watching in frustration at how Vernon was drawing him out.

All for a reason, no doubt.

He spread his legs a bit wider, just to accommodate Roche, and his Commander took the hint.

He met his eyes and laid his tongue flat over the top of his head, giving it a sharp, messy lick that nearly made him buck. Then, he took a breath and held him steady.

Without warning, he began to swallow him down.

Gods, the sensation nearly made him come, and he finally let out the strangled groan that was struggling to be free in his throat.

Where the hell did Roche learn these things? Why did it feel so damn good?

He moaned against his cock, the vibrations making him hiss, before he started to move, drawing back up, nearly to his tip, before he thrust his head back down, his hand chasing his mouth. The bloody movement made an abhorrent noise - slippery, wet, dirty - and he grit his teeth as he watched, his cock growing slicker with every pass. He could smell it now, the scent of his skin mixing with saliva and sweat, and he was helpless to do anything but clench his muscles, trying to delay how badly he was being affected by his damn Commander’s mouth.

Just watching him too was starting to make his gut churn, blood pumping harshly to his cock. If he was asked, he would have to say Roche was handsome, in his own way. Once you looked past the constant dirty shadow of a beard that never seemed to want to grow, the heavy eyes, the furrowed brows, and the fact that he looked like a starved mutt that would murder for the scraps off a bone. There was no doubt a harshness about him that only Temeria seemed to bring, but once relaxed, he looked quite pleasant. Only Roche never relaxed, hence the word rarely applied to him.

Except now he was seeing him in such a setting. Where his brows were furrowed as he concentrated on sucking him off, his usual yapping mouth wrapped around his shaft, moving in a way that he wanted to watch forever. He saw his exposed throat moving, bobbing as he swallowed, and for a moment, his eyes didn’t look like damn souless pits. There was light behind them - no, lust - and they fluttered every so often, the deep groan that came from his throat only accentuating the unnatural look of bliss that kept crossing his face.

Gods, Vernon was bloody well _adoring_ what he was doing, and it made him finally snap. He moved to grab his hair, shaking him from his state, and he only breathed in response, scratching his skull, his hair still dense in his hand.

“More,” he asked. Roche obeyed, and he audibly swallowed around his cock, the movement making him tense. Oh, he was beginning to leak.

Before he hit a point where he couldn’t go back from, Vernon pulled off his cock with a loud, audible pop, saliva dripping from his bottom lip. He panted for a moment, clearly affected by his own actions, before he kissed the tip of his cock, rubbing the precome that had collected against his top lip. Immediately, his tongue swiped at the fluid, a slight moan escaping from his throat, before he moved to lay his tongue flat against the underside of his cock from the base. Slowly, he dragged it up, coating him with as much saliva as he could before he repeated the action, ending with his tongue swiping at the pearls of cum building on the tip, as if that was his reward.

Gods help him. He felt his gut churn in a way that it hadn’t since he first saw Adda lay on his bed when they were young. He was affecting in a way that he knew he needed to stop.

Yet he didn’t.

“Vernon,” he muttered, but his Commander didn’t respond. He was angling his head again, his hand starting to work him hard - stroking with a good, gentle grip, but enough that it wasn’t lazy - and he slipped down, nipping at his sack, furthering the tension that was building in his stomach. His damn tongue - How the hell was he ever going to look at it again and not think of this - lapped at him, traced the base of his shaft, ran circles on his balls. He was performing like a damned expert whore, and it was only furthering the inexplicable tension he felt building in his body. It stoked a sick need that was beginning to sprout in his head.

What else was Roche willing to do for him? How far would his Commander let himself be pushed? He wasn’t at all familiar with the workings of the male body, beside the obvious things, but he knew some things that had surfaced in rumors he had been told abroad. That it was possible to fuck a man like a woman. That the same acts could be performed, with the benefit that a man never got pregnant. Of course, he never took much stock in them. After all, he had Maria. Yet she was making her position clear, just as Roche was doing to him now.

And he had his needs. He was a King. It was a natural urge. Only, instead of hiring a whore for his liking, or even picking out one of his chambermaids, an unnatural seed was taking place in his mind. One he tried to resist, but with each lick it was getting harder. Each time he heard his Commander moan, it spread root.

How eager would Roche be to spread himself for him? Would he let him fuck him like he was a bitch in heat?

How would his dear Temerian Commander look on his hands and knees on the rug in front of him? Or on his bed, fisting his sheets? Would he moan like a woman? Could he beg like a dog? Satisfy him in the morning with his mouth? Let him fill up his stomach with seed?

How long could _he_ stand this before he broke. Before he needed to make Vernon be _his_ property?

Instantly, he fisted Roche’s hair, dragging him up, ignoring the pained gasp he made.

“Open your mouth,” he demanded, growing angry at the fact that he was losing control. That thoughts were starting to fill his head. Ones where he was throwing his Commander on the floor and _fucking_ him until he couldn’t stand. Where he made him suck him off while he sat on his throne, showing his entire court just how damn loyal his attack dog could be. He wanted to mess him up, to use him, to bloody well mark him as one of his girls.

He started thrusting deep into his open mouth, forcing his head down on him to the point where he felt his tip hit the back of his throat, his grip harsh in his hair. Only Roche didn’t protest; Hell, he barely made a sound. He merely relaxed, his eyes rolling back, his jaw slackening as if he knew what he wanted. As if he was _happy_ to oblige. Without a prompt, he swallowed, his hand slipping back to rest on his thigh, his body steady as he started bobbing his head down onto his cock, not even gagging when he bucked. He took it in stride, allowing himself to be pushed, and for a moment, he almost got Roche’s mouth fully sheathed on his cock.

The sight alone made his sack tighten, and he could feel he was getting close.

“Vernon,” he tried to warn him. The eyes that met his own made his gut clench.

He looked too damn good with his cock in his mouth. Whatever control he had at that point was suddenly gone, and he stopped caring.

He wanted to come down his Commander’s unbearably hot throat. He wanted to _mess_ Vernon up.

He was _his_.

“Get back,” he demanded as he moved to push himself off the chair, standing over his Commander, who obeyed, pulling away from his cock with a hot breath, his lips growing swollen. He didn’t give him a chance to recover, his hand moving to grab his head, and he slapped his wet cock against his cheek, pressing it against his raw, uneven skin. “Suck.”

He panted, quickly obeying, and his cock was once again being shoved down his Commander’s throat, the sensation making him clench. Vernon grabbed at his thighs - not out of pain, but leverage - and he relaxed as he started fucking his throat, as if the act was nothing, like he was used to it. It would have pissed him off if not for the fact that he was drawing too close to release, his head growing fuzzy from the Temerian rye still in his system and the dark thoughts still drowning out his logic.

Should he make Vernon swallow his seed? Should he come on his face? Somewhere else? There was still time for him to throw him onto his hands and knees. He’d figured out what to do to fuck him. It couldn’t be that hard. But would that be too far? Or not enough for his damned slut of a Commander?

Part of his mind began to warn him of how dangerous this was. He needed to stop. He was fucking his Commander’s throat as if he was a bloody cheap whore. Yet the new angle had given him better light, the fire casting shadows off them differently as well as illuminating other parts. He could see the saliva glistening on Vernon’s upper lip, how wet his cock was every time it disappeared into his mouth, how his eyes were rolling back in utter bliss. He moaned against him, dug his nails into his skin, and he swore he saw his back arch slightly, his body utterly submissive to him.

Like he would truly let him do anything to his body.

“Gods damn you, Vernon,” he hissed from above, his face growing hot in embarrassment. Not just for him and how how he was acting, but for the clear lack of morality his Commander had. At how vulnerable he was allowing himself to be. Gods, he was always so honest, yet this was the one time he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be offering himself so willingly. He shouldn’t be _tempting_ him.

He pulled out, ignoring the wet, sloppy popping noise it made, and Roche panted hard, still trying to lick him, his fingers gripping his thighs in need. 

“Y-Your Majesty…” he tried, but he cut him off. Only so he didn’t have to heard how his voice was shaking. Otherwise he was going to throw him onto his stomach right there and then.

“Say my name, Vernon.”

He shook, swallowing thickly, trying to regain the control he had obviously lost _from sucking him off._

It came out as a moan. “ _Foltest._ ”

Gods, he nearly came right there. Instead, he fisted his hair again, pressing his face against his throbbing, wet cock, indicating what he needed. Roche licked his lips.

“Make me come, Vernon.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” he replied, and he was swallowed back up by his unbearably hot mouth, his throat relaxing as he forced him in fully. He watched as his Commander, breathing hard through his nose, thrust himself against him until his cock was fully sheathed in his mouth. Where his lips were against the base of his shaft and he could feel the back of his throat.

There was no going back at that point.

He let him take the lead, watched him wildly thrust down on him, sucking hard, coating him in slick saliva that began dripping down his chin. He was so damn eager, so relentlessly determined, and he only cupped the back of his head to help, mesmerized by the scene of his Commander swallowing him like a professional. Vernon moaned against him, pulling back once to stroke him hard as he kissed up and down his shaft, before he was back to letting him fuck his throat, his thighs beginning to shake with need. Gods, he was close.

As if he sensed it, he quickly thrust down, swallowing him up in a single motion, taking him fully to the base before he pulled back just to keep enough of him in his mouth as he worked him hard with his right hand, encouraging him to release. It took him a moment - he wasn’t as young as he used to be, even with Vernon driving him mad with his actions - and his breath hitched when he felt it. Like the spring in a ballista that had been coiled back for ages, waiting to unleash the spear it held.

He fisted Vernon’s hair, pushing his mouth against him, needing a bit more pressure. Just enough to set him over the edge.

Roche moaned against him, the vibrations driving straight down his cock. It was enough. He let himself go with barely a sound.

Vernon continued to groan against him, swallowing greedily, not letting him pull back until he was satisfied. His cock slipped from his mouth with a harsh, slick sound, and finally his Commander properly breathed, his tongue hanging from his mouth for a moment before he swallowed again.

He didn’t leave a single drop.

“Gods,” he muttered, ignoring his Commander as he slipped back to fall into his chair, thoroughly spent, and his body quietly shook from the aftermath. He hadn’t come like that in years. Vernon only sat before him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but he could see he was shaking himself.

His eyes flicked down and he finally saw why. His dear little Commander had come just from sucking him off, a clear stain on the rug beneath him.

Gods. What had he done? What had they just done?

He couldn’t look at him. Not yet. Just… Not yet. And he covered his eyes, rubbing at them with his left index finger, the tension that settled between them no longer as thick, but it took on a new air. One of awkwardness and shame.

_Because they both knew what they had done was wrong._

He heard Vernon shift, his breath short for a moment before he forced himself to stand, and he caught a brief glance of how he staggered slightly. Clearly his Commander wasn’t used to kneeling for so long. Either that or he wasn’t used to releasing in such a way - No, he had to stop himself. He couldn’t keep thinking about it, otherwise he was bound to get aroused again.

“Your Majesty,” Roche asked, his voice rather quiet and thick with guilt. “Do you have any water, or a cloth-?”

A cloth?

Yes, in the next room. He merely flipped his wrist back to indicate, still not looking at him, even though he knew he should. He just came down his throat, now he wouldn’t even face him? That wasn’t how a king acted; Even one who just engaged in such an act. Though Roche said nothing of it and he merely left, his walk awkward, the scent of sex following him causing Foltest to frown.

He stared at the stain on his rug. It wasn’t very big, but it was enough to be a permanent reminder.

Gods damn everything. He grabbed his mug and threw back the last of the rye in it, the liquid burning his throat, yet it didn’t settle the feeling in his gut. The one that was now chuckling, teasing him on his previous thoughts.

He could still throw Roche to his rug and make the stain bigger. Wouldn’t he like to see just how much his Commander had come against his trousers?

“Stop it,” he hissed at himself. As if that made a difference.

Vernon returned a few ticks later, a bucket in hand with a cloth on the side. This time, he met his eyes, and he frowned deeply at his Blue Stripes Commander. He looked utterly normal. As if nothing had happened between them in the least. His eyes were back to being dark, his mouth and brows set in a permanent scowl and he found himself blinking in shock.

Without a word, he set the bucket down, moving to wring out the cloth when he shoved his foot against his knee, nearly knocking the bucket over in the process. Roche only paused.

“Vernon,” he said, his voice harsher than he intended, but it was irritating him how quickly Roche had recovered. Especially when he was going to be plagued all night with the image of him on his knees, moaning, his throat swallowing up his cock like a trained whore. “Where did you learn all that?”

His Commander’s face went red. He didn’t like the sight.

“Vernon?”

He didn’t hesitate, but he certainly took his damn time in thinking how to answer. The cloth twisted in his hand, every last drop of water squeezing out from between his fingers, and he finally let out a sigh. One that was clearly tinged with embarrassment. He held out the cloth, waiting for him to take it, but he refused to move. Not until he got his answer.

He got the message. “The streets.”

He frowned. “The streets?” Roche didn’t say anything. “What does that mean?”

He let out a quiet, heavy sigh. “I used to get into a lot of fights.”

“What does that have to do with-”

“Sometimes,” he cut in. “Beating me wasn’t a good enough punishment. I was a whore’s son. So I needed to act like one.”

He didn’t elaborate further. Foltest stared at him. He didn’t understand.

“Vernon, what-”

He frowned. _Deeply_. “Let’s just say you learn to suppress your gag reflex fast. If there’s one thing your tormentors don’t like, it’s you puking on their dick. Or biting it. So you learn. Otherwise, you die.”

He found himself clenching his jaw.

“Vernon-”

“It’s in the past, your Majesty,” he said, flushing as he did, clearly wanting to move past the conversation. “It doesn’t matter.”

He begged to differ. Of course it mattered, how could it not? Especially when he wasn’t sure what he felt over being told one of his soldiers - his best soldier - had been forced to learn how to swallow a man’s cock. It angered him, of course. Vernon was a hell of a lot of things, but he didn’t deserve to be tortured in such a way. Yet, the way he acted, the way he moaned under him, he wasn’t all too sure if Roche was telling him the entire truth. Had that been all an act?

No, he asked him to show him how he would care for him, and his method had been to bloody well suck him off. Except, that could still be learned. How much had Roche been tortured before he found him?

“Your Majesty?” Vernon interrupted his brooding, and he found himself scowling at him, not liking the new sensations churning in his gut. He offered him the cloth again and he finally took it, hastily wiping himself off. Only now, he was ruminating over what exactly his Commander was. Why had they engaged in such an act, this late at night?

“Vernon,” he found himself muttering, twisting the cloth over his flaccid cock, wiping off the last of his dirty, sticky saliva. “Did… they ever violate you?”

Roche frowned. “No.”

“So, you’ve never been with anyone?”

“No,” he admitted.

Why that filled him with relief, he couldn’t say. It just did. “So you were only made to get men off with your mouth?”

His lips pressed thin and he hesitated before nodding. “Yes.”

“Do you like doing it?”

The tension spiked in the room and he visibly saw his Commander stiffen. It made him pause, his eyes holding Roche’s steady, their gaze unwavering. He could see something conflicted behind them, a small twitch starting at the corner of his mouth, before he finally answered, his teeth baring for a moment.

“No.”

Good answer.

“But I liked doing it to you.”

Wrong answer.

Once again, pressure invaded the space between them. Thick and musty. One that was almost compelling him to get up and shove his cock down the damned man’s throat without care. He held himself steady, even though he fisted the cloth, and after a moment, his breath came out in a low, shaky tone.

Roche was too damn willing for him. And gods damn him if he wasn’t taking the bait.

“If I violated you, Vernon,” he began, not thinking properly as he spoke. Roche didn’t move but he could see his eyes widening slightly, his lips parting slightly so he could breathe. “If I decided I want to fuck you. Would you like it?”

The flush returned to Roche’s face. A deep, hot crimson that did nothing to hide his thoughts. Gods help him for being so bloody honest.

“I-”

He cut him off, just because he could. “If I threw you on the floor right now and fucked you, Vernon Roche, what would you do? Would you still serve me? Would you moan like you did ten minutes ago?”

He was purposely goading him on - Gods help him - and they both knew it, but he wanted to test how far he could push himself. At how much he bloody well wanted it. How much he wanted to mess up his loyal Commander even more than he had done. To see him wither beneath him. To bloody well coat his insides with his damn seed and claim him for Temeria.

“Your Majesty,” Roche said, cutting through his thoughts, the tension now palatable; Intense. “I am always yours to command.”

Wrong answer.

No, it was the right answer, but it was completely wrong in so many ways.

He only breathed.

 _Gods._ He was getting hard again and he could see the same amount of lust being reflected back at him within his Commander’s eyes. He was already willing to go as far as he wanted.

It was beyond dangerous now. It was absolute madness, and he couldn’t give in. Not yet.

_Even though it was damn tempting to do so._

“Good,” he said, his own voice thick again, struggling to retain a semblance of control. “Then if I call on you and wish it, I expect you to be ready. Got it?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’re dismissed, Roche,” he said, before he grabbed him right there and threw him to the floor. Before he fucked his Commander like a bull in heat. Before he did something they would both regret.

He obeyed, his head bowing again, but not before he struggled to get up, his chest rising rapidly for a second before it calmed. No doubt he was going to take care of himself once he got someplace secluded. It was written plainly over his face, but he couldn’t let himself dwell on it. After all, twice in one night was a little much for someone of his age - well, maybe not, but he didn’t want to press it - and he said nothing as Roche grabbed his cloak, turning into a shapeless, brooding figure that blended into the shadows once more.

He hesitated by the door before he opened it and slipped past, not bothering to look back for the sake of them both. As soon as he was sure he had taken off, he let out the breath he had been holding, slumping deeply in his chair, his cock twitching, wanting to have some stimulation again.

He dropped the cloth over it, not bothering for a moment as he stared at the fire, his mind dissecting what he had just done.

Without thinking, he had fucked his Commander’s throat. He spilled his seed into his mouth, told him he’d violate him, listened to him moan in ecstasy and bloody well want it. His Commander. _Vernon Roche._ The whoreson had been all too willing.

This was more dangerous than him and Adda. That had been a scandal, of course, but she had still been a woman, and an incredibly beautiful one at that. He had loved his sister too greatly, and their union had been a byproduct of that. This, however, was entirely different. He loved Roche, yes, but it was in the same way he loved his country. The way he cared about all his soldiers. It didn’t extend beyond that.

His lust, on the other hand, extended far beyond what he had ever felt for Adda. Even Maria didn’t compare. He never had such depraved thoughts about them. He lusted for them, yes, but it was for the feeling of their skin against his, or his need to bury his hands in their hair. Vernon was different. He wanted to treat him like a whore. He wanted to push him, spread him, to have him pant his name and bloody well swallow his cock when told. He didn’t care that he was a man. It wasn’t about that.

It was about making him own up to his vows. To hear him moan his name one more time before he broke him.

Gods, the thought alone made him grab his cock, the damp cloth helping with the friction as he started pumping his hand, his eyes closing.

It didn’t take long for him to come, though it was less intense than before. He only sighed, wiping himself off before he dropped the cloth into the bucket, not bothering to clean it properly. He would have to, before the maids came in the morning, but in that moment he remained in his chair, staring at the fire, his breathing settling into a quiet rhythm.

Silently, he looked to the table beside him, where Maria’s letter lay beside the bottles, the corner slightly bent, though undamaged.

This wouldn’t have happened if she had trusted him. Now look where they were.

He finally pushed himself up, leaving with the empty bottles of Temerian Rye with her words. If she wanted a war, she was going to have one. After all, his Commander’s mouth was a fine substitute.

Even if it did leave him feeling like he had stepped off the edge of the world.


End file.
